War Between Brothers
by RishiGenki
Summary: Wars between brothers are bitter, and even moreso when one must think of the terrible things he must do to a loved one.  AU, where America loses the Revolution. Probably a oneshot.


War Between Brothers

[ An Alternate Universe idea - more of a one shot then anything.

Summary: To a nation, when war is waged, everything is on the line. One's people, one's ideals, and even one's own life. An AU idea where Arthur wins the American Revolution. ]

Wars between brothers are bitter, and even moreso when one must think of the terrible things he must do to a loved one.

Arthur's heart was heavy on that dreary day, the rain soaking into his thick red wool coat, weighing him down physically, but it did little to actually hold him back. Why? Why did Alfred have to pursue this? He was being ridiculous, and Arthur had already pushed so many of the boundaries he had not wanted to. The thirteen colonies had long since lost their profitability, and he was pushing his own limits by dragging his army all the way over here, across the Atlantic, to deal with this outrage.

He had not wished to levy such restrictions on paper or quarters, and his taxes towards other colonies of his had been higher still than those towards the American colonies. Of course he had demanded he only trade with the United Kingdom, but it made sense! A colony exists to benefit its' mother country; even if he was losing more money by being here. His people wanted to let this place go. His people did not care so much, but Arthur Kirkland did. The colonists did, as well. He could tell.

Why could they not settle things like brothers, than as enemies? A lump formed in his throat, and he tried to swallow it, but his own sheer worry kept it firmly cemented in place. He never sought to see Alfred as he did Antonio or Francis, as his enemies. Alfred Kirkland was his brother! His most precious brother…though this particular fact was not something he was keen to admit in the presence of other nations. But Alfred was angry at him, and perhaps he was being a brat with an excessive temper tantrum. He was so firmly cemented in this idea of freedom that he would not listen to reason. But why? He was an intelligent lad, he should know what the world holds, what foul beasts some other nations were; the sorts that lurked outside his borders—the vicious Spaniards from the South, and the French to the north.

He needs me, Arthur reassured himself, though he was beginning to wonder if that was a lie as well.

( - )

Alfred refused to acknowledge his last name.

He refused the name 'Kirkland' altogether. Just the taste of it on his lips - the taste of gunfire, mud and hatred - was enough to make him sick.

He had cast aside that name when the war had began. In early July of seventeen-seventy six, he had thrown it away. He took no last name now - he had considered being called 'Franklin', but Benjamin had advised him to not be so rash in choosing a last name. Benjamin, who claimed he had made friends with Francis years before - (and it was widely acknowledged by the great country of love himself had a fondness for the old man) - had taught him much on being a newly born nation. He had advised him of events he would be inexplicably drawn to - which would be landmark events for his nation - and of other, little things, such as how to tell when a woman was lying or not, or how to chose the best set of flowers for courting. These things, and many others, were much more then Alfred's own brother had taught him.

'Brother'. Alfred spat at the word. Arthur was no brother of his. Nor was Matthew, who had left Alfred's side in favor of staying with their former caretaker. Alfred had no family now, no friends but Francis, who would always look over him with a bit of worry in his eyes. But Alfred never cared, he was never tempted to look back at his colonizer. Those days of happiness, of love and candlelit nights…of waiting, of agonizing loneliness and complete despair…were banished from his mind.

The only thing waiting for Alfred when he returned from the battlefield was his musket. He preferred it that way. There was nothing blocking his mind, nothing that would pull him back when he would doubt himself. His people would reaffirm that decision every time he closed his eyes and listened to their voices.

Though, when he closed his eyes, he also felt the pain. The misery, and the despair of his people, running through his head as they died, one by one, attacked by the British and the Loyalists. It wrenched his heart, and his head, and he often had to cry himself to sleep because of it.

Still, the boy held his head up high, determined not to look back.

That was why, on that rain-soaked, heavy-hearted day, Alfred took up his gun with determination.

He was to kill Arthur with his own hands if he had to - he would not regret, he would not look back. He was a nation, as he should be, and would never return to Arthur's side willingly - no, he was far too wrapped up in his Revolution to even think of returning to those carefree, childhood days that he loved.

That was why, when Alfred raised his gun, he would not drop it. Even as the child, buried deep inside him - because he was nothing but a child, a measly few hundred years old was a drop in the bucket compared to even Arthur, even the other nations that he had heard about in stories - cried for Arthur.

He would not hesitate.

He would not drop his gun.

Not even as the pit of his stomach wretched itself in two when Arthur looked up at him, tears in his emerald eyes.

( - )

Arthur was an Empire. Empires never wavered.

But today, he was not certain if he was doing the right thing. He owned half the world, he had everything in his hands. Everything. The world was his for the taking; spices of the East, the gold of the African continent, the riches of the Caribbean, the furs of the far north (supposedly they belonged to France, but they were as good as his for the taking). He was the British Empire. No one said no to the British Empire.

Except for Alfred. Alfred was the one thing that he could never have. Perhaps that was why he wanted him so badly. To keep him; to say that he could have such a wild, free sprit in his possession, Arthur Kirkland could tame the wild frontiers of the New World, couldn't he?

…but it ran deeper than that. Far deeper. Alfred was the one person in the world who had become most important to Arthur over the past hundred years. Alfred was the only person who could make him smile. His heart sang when Alfred laughed, and it was if the world itself would shatter when he cried. To see Alfred so angry, so hurt by him, after all he had desperately done to, well—keep the companies profitable (at least such that his own people would still desire to invest there, there had been no gold to be found in America, despite the money that had been poured into colonization efforts, and he did not dare to think back to the nightmare that had been Jamestown some two hundred years before), but such efforts only angered the colonists and did little to keep Arthur's people happy. But Arthur needed Alfred, and thus, he had to win.

There was no other option. He reminded himself of this fact as he raised his musket.

"Alfred Kirkland. Surrender and all will be forgiven. We could go home now, if you wish!" he called across the open field. "This is no way to be a hero, this is a world of empires! Heroes die, but we live forever!"

( - )

Alfred snarled at Arthur's voice. His blood boiled, as the elder called for him - by that name, that dreaded Kirkland name. He hated it, he hated the way Arthur simply assumed everything would go back to as it had been…as it should have been, as it had been for hundreds of years. Arthur assumed that the teen would be alright, that Alfred would be okay with being under Arthur's rule, with being the British empire's little plaything.

No. Assuming such a thing was outlandish. As a child, all he wanted was the elder's smile; if he got that, he could go days and weeks and months of being suppressed, of housing soldiers that did not belong to him, that looked and sneered at him as if he were a bug on the sidewalk. Of threats of taxes on things his people needed, like paper. Stamps. Things of that nature.

No, as long as Arthur had been happy and smiling, laughing as Alfred always wanted him to, the teen was okay with the ways Arthur would repress him. After all, as long as Arthur was with him, Alfred should have been happy.

But no, that was gone now. The desire for that sentiment was dead, along with hundreds and thousands of Alfred's men. They had died fighting for their cause, and Alfred would not turn his back and go crawling back to the older man. Not after everything his people had done.

Not after everything he had done to earn this right.

So he raised his gun and snapped at the words of the elder nation, "Kirkland? Alfred Kirkland, you say? No, I gave up that name! That name is dead to me! I am Alfred, nothing more!" he snarled.

The teen took a step closer, as the rain beat down on the two warring nations. The mud was getting on his shoes, clinging to his pant legs and dragging him down, but Alfred paid it no mind. He jabbed the gun in Arthur's direction and snapped again.

"Don't you dare call me by such a sentient! I am not your little brother any longer! I desire nothing but my freedom, something you are trying to deny me from! My people have spoken, and I refuse to back down and bow on my knees to you! You repress my nation's growth, we can grow into something so much more fulfilling then just your child, to be cared for!"

( - )

Arthur knew that someday Alfred would be ready to strike out on his own. Someday he could stand as his own nation, head held high, with his own colours and his own power and his own dreams.

But today was not that day. Nay, not in the least. No one backed out of the British Empire until he said so. No one said no to Arthur Kirkland, just as no one said no to captain Kirkland. It was simply something one did not do. A foolish venture. A fool's errand. A terrible idea in and of itself. And yet here was Alfred, his brother, not his enemy, attempting to do so. Did he know what the consequences for such behavior even were? Was he aware of what he was getting into?

Alfred was his and rightfully so, it was simply that at present the boy did not seem to know his place. Did Alfred take him for a fool? The very reason he was standing there at present was because well, what else was he going to do? He was going to take back what was rightfully his, even if it hurt him to do so. It always hurt him to go against Alfred, it hurt him to scold him when he did not sit upright to drink his tea, it hurt him to scold him over disobeying his instructions, and it hurt him now to take him to war for refusing to stay at home like a good boy.

"Alfred, you say such things, and yet you forget we are tied by blood. My blood and your blood, they are the same. I do not wish to fight you, I do not wish to spill your blood, which is so dear to me, but if you must be as you have been, then so be it!" He raised an arm, gesturing to his soldiers. No one walked away from him, no one. He was the British Empire, and he never backed down. If Alfred renounced his name? So be it. That meant that he could treat Alfred as an enemy, the same way he treated France, or Spain. He was not afraid to do so, even if it hurt his heart. And it did; more than a little, because Arthur loved Alfred as a precious little brother. But what could they do? Alfred was beyond talking to, beyond negotiations. Alfred wanted war. He wanted to believe in the power of a gun as the answer to his problems, and now Arthur would teach him, in a painful manner, even, to pick his battles wisely. After all, this was his first true war on his own, and he had chosen to go to war with the British Empire.

"If you will not lower your weapon, I shall force you." He kept his musket steady, taking aim.

"Ready, men, on my mark….FIRE."

( - )

The first gunshot always stung, no matter where it hit.

Alfred winced as the bullet tore through his clothing, making its new home the middle of his shoulder. He knew that Arthur would not cease, would not back down, until he had his way - like a selfish child who refused to share or give up their old toys. It was a fitting analogy, and Arthur easily slid into the temperamental child motif like the gloves on his hands.

Still, the teen readied his own gun, loading and shooting it at the enemy with ease. He was used to the pain, the horror and the blood that the battlefield brought; though in the beginning, he had hid in his tent as the guns went off, the tears of a coward slipping down his face as he cried, cried, cried for hours on end, as his people died for him in a blazing war full of hard glory and revolution…

But the war had hardened him. He was used to the fallen bodies now, the hatred and vengeance that battle brought. The smell of blood was becoming common to him, the fallen and rotting bodies becoming nothing of interest anymore.

There were many bodies, many soldiers who died fighting for this cause. Especially since they were against Arthur, who had waged so many wars on Europe's lands that he didn't care for soiling the New World with blood, the blood of thousands of young men and women in their prime, of children who had barely tasted life. By now, Arthur was completely blinded by his selfish wants and desires, his hate and his crusade to bring Alfred back to him.

So Alfred shot his gun. He shot, reloaded, and shot again, even as his companions fell. He continued, shot after shot, until finally, he was the last one standing in the pouring rain. Still, he did not stop. He continued to fight back, shooting at Arthur though he had no more bullets, even though Arthur was approaching him with, alone on the battlefield. Even though Alfred knew he had lost.

His men were all dying and dead. The British had finally cut them all down, even though they had put up their best fight.

There were no prisoners. Arthur wouldn't take traitors as prisoners.

But Arthur would take him. He would take Alfred back, back to England, and forgive him for all Alfred had tried to do. The Revolution was a failure. Alfred was a failure.

The honey-haired teen could no longer see in his blind rage. The tears falling from his face as he fought and tore at the empire that approached, charging with his bayonet in a final, vain attempt at survival. However, the will of his people was gone.

It was over. He had lost. Arthur had retained control over him.

( - )

When they met, face to face, on the battlefield, Arthur saw Alfred looking at him; but he was sure that Alfred probably did not see him to begin with. He looked right through him, as a crazed beast looked at the world around it, and the very sight of it stung Arthur's heart. He let Alfred stab him, let him have the satisfaction of feeling himself inflict such pain on another person, but to a degree, Arthur did not mind. He was an empire, he could take the pain, and he could handle a colony standing up to him. If he could not, well then perhaps he did not deserve his own empire, he concluded to himself.

After all, Alfred's acts of rebellion were his fault to a degree, he had failed to keep Alfred happy, and now he was acting out. Arthur blamed himself. It only made sense if his own blood was spilled, in addition to that of his men. He stood there, gripping the edge of the bayonet as it was thrust into his side, the blade digging into his fingers as he pulled it from his body. He sputtered a little, but it was hard to hide the dark smirk that was slowly creeping its way across his face.

"Are you happy now, Alfred?…Is this what you wanted? The blood of your men and mine stains this ground. In war, there are no true heroes, everyone is a villain. Everyone is at fault." His voice was as heavy as his heart, the words cold, unlike those affectionate ones he usually sent to Alfred when he was trying to teach him or lecture him, these were cold and honest. They were words that carried his cold, matter-of-fact opinion to Alfred. To Arthur, however, it was not simply his opinion, for he saw it as irrefutable truth.

The rain beat down upon him and his men, and he clutched his side with one hand. Perhaps allowing Alfred to injure him had been a mistake. It brought out the wrathful empire in him even moreso than this skirmish already had, and he was less hesitant to act. He brought his other arm around, slapping the enraged teen in the face. This was the first time he had ever truly struck Alfred; but his emotions had overwhelmed him and in truth, they had gotten the best of him. He had never wanted it to come to this. The inner Arthur, the big brother in Arthur, regretted this action instantly, but the empire in him was tempted to grab Alfred and kick him, hard, and perhaps crush him into the ground. Shove his face into the mud, and show him his place. What a terrible notion, he thought, restraining himself.

"Alfred, I am …truly sorry…"

( - )

The slap hurt. No matter how much pain he was in, the slap Arthur had hit him with hurt. Coughing, Alfred fell to the ground with a thud. He was already losing blood, and he had lost his dignity along with it. And hearing Arthur apologize on top of it all…it made him sick, it made Alfred sick to his stomach.

He snarled, forcing himself to get up. He could feel himself losing consciousness, but he forced himself to stay standing, to refuse to let Arthur win. He struggled to stand, to get on his knees, and then arched his back with a pained cry as he fell back into the mud, face first. He choked back sob after dry sob, his heart ripping apart as he shattered.

He was at fault. He couldn't do it. He had lost, and Arthur was going to take him back. Back to London, where he would treat his wounds and forgive him. For everything. And Alfred wouldn't be able to object - he could be killed if Arthur so wished it…though, he knew that the elder Kirkland would never wish for his death. Arthur was too kind, too…obsessed with brotherhood, with siblings and children, to wish for his death.

So Alfred cried. He cried because he knew he could not escape.


End file.
